A walk in the wet tar, in the rain, with my shoes and socks soaked through, and the brown furrows of rice fields drenched in mirrors—the vast cement hospital rising like a neo-Wagnerian castle out of its upside-down double, interrupted by a few rolls of sallow hay, scraps of blue tarps, shark-chewed husks of stained styrofoam. Few sidewalks on this walk. Much danger & discomfort.
In a special sort of room on the library’s first floor, beyond the beeping security turnstiles and the computers which you use, with your ID, to check out a specific chair in any one of a number of enormous reading rooms—bare, practical, fluorescent, uncomfortable affairs, guaranteed to leave you with an aching neck and back if you stay for too long—but in this special room, I sit for over three and a half hours, and write, and it is pleasant. I have not yet explored the stacks. I don’t even know where they are.